The Lincoln Conspiracy by Timothy L. O'Brien Page B

blow would have made me great, though I did desire no greatness
.
    Across the top of a following page, in bold, printed letters that departed from the tight script elsewhere, was the lone word that Temple had spotted at the railroad station: “assassination.”
    Patriot has told Maestro that I am no traitor, I am sure. Patriot says that Maestro owns Lord War. Davey, George, and Lewis are all heroes also, even if they, too, share the mark of Cain. Those that find this, those that chase me, know the cipher, and the cipher is true. I do not care that I am made a villain among those who honor the Tyrant. He wanted nigger citizenship and I ran him through
.
    Temple stopped.
    “Temple, you’ve gone pale,” Augustus said. “Is that all there is?”
    “No, there’s more,” Temple said, quietly.
    “Tha’s the shooter,” Nail said. “Johnny Booth.”
    Temple closed the journal and slipped it inside his breast pocket, where it sat comfortably, he thought, in exactly the same place John Wilkes Booth had probably kept it the night he shot Mr. Lincoln.
    “I think Augustus and I need to move on before the morning wears long here, Nail,” Temple said. “For now we best go where we don’t complicate your day any further and where I can find Fiona.”
    “You walk through that door, Temple, you and Augustus, hanging on to those diaries, and you both walk out into a world of pain. You can’t walk away from it after that.”
    “You told me I wasn’t born in the woods to be scared of owls.”
    “That was before all of this reading. Those diaries are desired. They speak of a slain president. Leave them with whoever is after them and go on your way. It all smells of blood, and you’ll bleed, too. You already have. More will follow.”
    Nail looked down at the floor in front of him. A vein pulsed on his neck, and he wrung his hands, the muscles in his forearms twitching like banjo wire.
    “World of pain,” he said.
    “You’re still with me?” Temple asked.
    “I am,” Nail replied. “Pinkerton and Baker hate one another, you know.”
    “And why?”
    “Because of Stanton. Dueling allegiances.”
    “I want to move these diaries to a different place, and I want to set about learning more about something that’s here in the second. I’ll be back to you tomorrow.”
    “And you’re off to where?”
    “To a place that would be as much a mystery to them as Swampdoodle.”
    “Neither of you should come back here at night, if you need to come back at all, and Augustus should never come alone,” Nail said. “Those men and dogs out there recognize neighbors and nobody else. None of them will tolerate a nig … none of them will tolerate a Negro on his own, day or night.”
    Temple shoved the Lincoln diary into the satchel.
    “Ta for all you’ve done, Nail.”
    “Nothing of it, Temp.”
    Nail turned to Augustus and paused. Then he shook his hand.
    When they got to the warehouse door and flung it open, a blast of ripening heat rushed in. The dogs barked wildly outside, straining at their leashes. Temple limped down the stairs at an angle, favoring his bad leg. As he and Augustus moved past the dogs, Temple turned to look back. Nail was watching them depart, hands on his hips, the ink stains that Augustus had mistaken for tattoos now a cobalt blue in the late morning sun.
    Temple closed his eyes for a moment, thinking about the queen of spades and a faro game at Mary Ann Hall’s. He needn’t worry about any bet he made in a card game at Mary Ann’s, not when he’d have the queen of spades. No coppers in his game, no betting the turn. Just smart flat bets. Winners.
    L AFAYETTE B AKER WAITED outside the tents at Camp Fry, watching the teenager tie up the back of his rucksack. Good soldier. Neat, responsible. Follows orders. Even listened to the Met at the B&Owhen he told him to charge my boys. Neat, disciplined, and a little bastard.
    “Son, come here,” Baker said.
    The soldier slung his rifle over his shoulder and